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Tuesday, July 1, 2014

Excerpt - Winging It - Out with the boys

Who doesn't love a good party? Nobody Quebec City Nordiques forward Gabe Martin knows. But no one parties like his potential new linemate Dante Baltierra, aka Baller.

Nobody has an ass like him either.

When Gabe strolled
in, he found about half the guys had taken over the restaurant. Again, not
surprising. They were sprawled over a few of the larger tables, laughing over
beers, and Gabe smiled. These were his people.

“Banksy!” Baller
shouted and waved Gabe over.

Gabe rolled his eyes
but moved toward the empty seat at Baller’s table.

Baller was an idiot.
The self-appointed life of the party, he was a stereotypical American abroad:
loud and exuberant. But he was also a driven player and an excellent left-winger.
He’d been the Dekes’ first-round draft pick last year, and sports writers had
buzzed about his potential until he’d taken a hit to the head and gotten
knocked out for the second half of the season. Now that he was back, Gabe
looked forward to seeing what kind of player he matured into.

“Banksy! Beer!”
Baller pushed a pint glass into Gabe’s hand.

Gabe was interested
to see if he’d ever mature off the ice too. Probably not any time soon.

“Are
you corrupting the rookies?” It was the same every year—one part hilarious, one
part frightening—when the American under-twenty-ones found out the drinking age
in Quebec was only eighteen.

Next to him in the
booth, Chef nudged his shoulder. “Fifi’s gonna make you babysit our first road
trip in the US, you know that, right?” Gabe caught his gaze behind Baller’s
back, and they exchanged smirks. It wasn’t that rookies couldn’t get into
bars—especially when accompanied by a couple lines of veteran players—but
making them believe they couldn’t was fun.

Baller waved him
off. “My liver will need a break by then anyway.”

Well, that was
probably true. Baller wouldn’t be twenty-one until January. Gabe
remembered being twenty in the NHL. Parts of it, at least. The Wings—the team
that had drafted him—partied a lot harder than the Dekes ever seemed to.

“But for right
now….” Baller lifted a shot glass of yellow liquid in each hand and offered one
to Gabe.

He might as well get
it over with. He just hoped it wasn’t tequila.

Around the table,
Fifi, Chef, and a handful of rookies, some of whom probably wouldn’t make the
end of camp, raised shot glasses of their own. Nobody said to the season, because that was jinxing it. You didn’t talk about
winning streaks for fear of breaking them; you didn’t talk about playoffs in
case you didn’t make them. They just touched glasses and swallowed the alcohol.

Fucking tequila.
Gabe made a face. “You’re the worst.”

Baller patted him
none too gently on the shoulder. “You love me and José really. You gotta get
up, though, ’cause we have bag skate tomorrow so I have to pick up early.”

Rolling his eyes,
Gabe stood to let Baller out. “Gentlemen,” Baller said with a jaunty wave, and
disappeared into the crowd of bodies.

One of this year’s
crop—Tom something, Gabe thought—shook his head and hunched his shoulders. “How
does he even pick up girls here? He doesn’t speak any French!”

Gabe caught himself
just before he sprayed the kid with a mouthful of beer. Chef took it upon
himself to answer instead. “He’s a professional hockey player. He makes almost
a million dollars a year. And he’s cute.”

“Dat ass,” Fifi
added gravely.

Gabe rolled his
eyes. “Last year he tortured me by singing ‘Lady Marmalade’ until I taught him
some better French pickup lines.” Not that he needed them. Most of the girls
Baller’s age spoke English just fine and weren’t shy about letting on,
especially when it could net them a night with the Internet’s favorite drunken hockey
player.

Brightening, the
rookie beside maybe-Tom leaned forward, all lanky teenage earnestness. Lord, if
he made the cut, the puck bunnies would eat him alive. “Can you teach me?”

“First of all, you
should get a native speaker to teach you.”

“Why didn’t Baller?”

“Baller did, but Fifi was unhelpful,” said the
man himself as he reappeared at the table with a beautiful girl under each arm.
Gabe made a note to check his watch next time, because that was fast. “He has ideas about respecting
women for longer than one night at a time. Speaking of!” He unwrapped his arm
from around the girl on his left, who had sharp cheekbones and a full mouth and
was blushing shyly. “This is Fleur”—he gestured to the girl on the right—“and
Elise. She wanted to meet you,” he added in an undertone.

Oh fuck.

“You brought your
phone?” he asked in French to cover his discomfort.

Elise nodded and
produced an iPhone in a pink case with the Nordiques logo. Gabe stood long
enough to put his arm around her shoulders while Baller snapped a photo, and then
shook her hand. “It was nice to meet you, Elise.” Now to steer her back to
someone who was interested. He tilted his head at Baller. “Be careful with this
guy, he’s fragile. Still sleeps with his teddy bear. Leaves the hall light on.”
He winked at Fifi and added, “Francois’s wife used to tuck him in at night
until he finally got his own place.”

“What are you
telling her?” Baller squawked as Fleur laughed out loud.

“Nothing that isn’t
true,” Gabe said, switching back to English. “Have a good night, kids.”

Baller didn’t look
at all reluctant as the girls dragged him toward the door.

Gabe turned back to
the table to find the rookies staring at him. He sighed. “What?”

“You just—” Tom
said, gesturing emphatically.

“She was so hot,” the rookie whose name Gabe had
already forgotten said mournfully. “Is Baller seriously going to go home with
both of them?”

Gabe shrugged.
“Probably.”

“But why didn’t you…?”

“Superstitious,”
Fifi said, proving he wasn’t Gabe’s best friend for nothing. “One time he pick
up on the road, pull a muscle in his back doing too much athletic sex. Missed
three games.”

It was a true story.
It just didn’t involve a woman and had nothing to do with why Gabe never picked
up when they went out.

“But it’s still training
camp!”

“And a bunch of
rookies are gunning for spots, including mine if I’m not careful,” Gabe pointed
out. “Though if you keep drinking, I don’t know about your chances.”

Tom looked down at
the plethora of empty shot glasses littering the table and turned a little
green. Gabe smirked and passed over a couple bills. “I’m out for the night. See
you kids bright and early.”

He’d lost the desire to watch his teammates pick up for the night while
he was unable to do the same. He missed sex, but the fear of getting caught
always kept him from doing something stupid.